


The Pain Was Always Free

by Emoryems



Category: The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Explicit Language, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Rape Recovery, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-15 18:36:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3457556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emoryems/pseuds/Emoryems
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl is out on a hunt, something he has done a hundred times since they settled into the prison, when it happens. And in the aftermath he's fighting to keep up in a world that seems to have spun out of his control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This a based off of a prompt on the twd_kinkmeme (http://twd-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/5396.html?thread=8040212#t8040212). 
> 
> This takes place starting about a month and a half after Rick starts farming, and continues through seasons four and five. 
> 
> Warnings: non-con (this is not explicitly depicted, but the scenes leading up are triggering, and the rest of the fic involves constant reminders of the event; please take care of yourself and don’t read if this will trigger you), violence, language (including misogynistic slurs), and detailed depictions of PTSD (including anxiety attacks, intrusive memories, hyperarousal, and self-blame). If anything else comes up I will warn. If you notice something that I’ve forgotten to warn about, please drop a note. I hate triggering people by accident.

The halls of the prison are quiet when Daryl packs a bag for a day out hunting. Not many people are up this early, even those who rise with the sun to get to work on chores, but Daryl knows one man who’ll be awake. 

Stopping outside of Rick’s cell, Daryl sees that Judith is still in her playpen sleeping away. Her face is peaceful, hands curled into her chest with her breath puffing out of her open mouth. If he wasn’t on his way out, Daryl would wait for her to wake, pick her up and feed her breakfast before anyone else could get the chance. He treasures the moments he is able to have with the youngest of them; between everything else, the constant movement of a life just on the edge of survival, she is a breath of relief. A glimmer of hope and joy greater than any other he can see. 

“G’mornin’,” says Rick.

Daryl looks up and sees Rick sitting on the edge of his bed, tugging his boots on over his socked feet. Rick is grinning at him, the thick curls of his hair hanging forward into his eyes just a bit. 

Daryl nods shortly, then motions behind himself with his crossbow in hand. “I’m headin’ out. Be back before dark.”

Rick licks his lips. Stands up and runs a hand through his hair to push the strands away from his forehead. “Which way?”

“To the northwest, toward the river. If there ain’t nothin’ that way, I’ll check the snares and come back.” Daryl shifts from foot to foot, trying not to stare at the way Rick’s lips shine in the dim light from where he had traced his tongue. 

Rick’s head dips in acknowledgement. “Alright then. Be careful out there.”

Daryl’s lips quirk and he snorts quietly. “Always am.” And then with one last look down at Judith, he leaves. 

Being outside the walls of the prison is a breath of fresh air. Just stepping out of them has his muscles relaxing and shoulders loosening. The cool morning air tastes sweet on his tongue, and he sucks it in deep just to feel it fill his lungs. 

Daryl is in his element in the woods. Has been for most of his life. The dead rising hasn’t changed that. 

Hours later the sun is nearing its zenith in the sky, the rays streaking down between tree branches and painting the forest floor in patches of shimmering golden green. Daryl enjoys the warm summer breeze, the scent of wild flowers heady in the air. Bird song is the only noise to disrupt the peace, and Daryl closes his eyes and breathes deep, luxuriating in the freedom. 

The walls of the prison, for all their safety and security, are still walls. He can only be within them for so long before he feels them start to close in, becoming stifling, and he needs to get out. If he doesn’t, if he stays put, his back gets tense, his hair stands on end, and every sound and movement makes him twitch. Before long he’s pacing the walkways, circling the fences, and practically growling at anyone who tries to come near. 

These hunts, they are the only thing that keeps him from going off the wall. And it ain’t like anyone is going to complain because he goes out more than he needs to, goes further, longer, and brings back more. Between tracking animals and tracking the governor he’s found a balance that he can live with. 

He’s been tracking the same doe for two miles, stopping and listening for any rustling in the grass, watching for the fresh tracks in the muddy ground. He knows he’s getting close, so he’s moving slow, stopping to lean up against every couple of trees to watch and wait. It wouldn’t do him any good to spook the animal.

Leaned up against a tree with his face pointed to the sun, Daryl takes a moment to just enjoy where he is. 

When he gets back to the prison, with or without a deer slung over his shoulders, there will be familiar faces to greet him. They won’t overwhelm him with questions, and instead will smile and pat his shoulder in greeting. Of course the smiles are always a little brighter when he comes back packing a deer, or a brace of swamp hares, and he finds himself pushing a little harder just to see that. 

There is also something about knowing so many of the group so well that puts him at ease. He’s never had that before, never been able to return to a physical place and know of his unconditional welcome. 

With those thoughts in mind, Daryl twitches when he hears the soft crack of a twig breaking somewhere ahead. His eyes snap open and he immediately has his crossbow up, scanning the area around him for movement. He can’t see anything, and after a few minutes of looking around, he lets his arms relax, swinging his crossbow over his shoulder again. 

With a sigh, he moves forward to continue on his way, but then swings back around as the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It feels like there are eyes on him, more than one pair. But he doesn’t see anyone, and nothing else seems out of place.

With one last squint around, Daryl shrugs and keeps going. Probably a damn squirrel. 

About ten minutes later, and he is at the bottom of a densely wooded slope, feet moving toe-to-heel as he makes his way around to the other side. As he moves past the next stand of trees, he is greeting with the sight of the doe standing about a hundred feet ahead, just barely visible between all of the trees. 

Creeping forward, eyes not moving from his prey, Daryl pauses for only a few seconds to draw and load a bolt into his crossbow. His arm muscles flex as he moves slowly but steadily ahead. 

He gets close enough that he knows he can make the shot, then kneels down and lines up his crosshairs. His finger curls slowly around the trigger, begins to squeeze, and then the whitetail’s ears prick up, and her head swivels around fast to look in his direction. 

And before he can re-align the shot, she’s off, bounding through the trees and bleating loud enough that her yells echo all around. Everything nearby would have heard that.

“Goddamnit,” he says, shaking his head. He’s not going to have time to track her down again and make it back before nightfall, and the last time he miss-calculated and got back late, a whole search party was being amassed. No way in hell is he going to kick up a fuss like that again. He may be able to take care of himself out here, but some of those people, especially the ones who have been behind walls since almost the start of this thing, wouldn’t stand a chance if something went wrong. He won’t have that shit on him.

Especially if they don’t stick to the protocol they’d hashed out after Daryl had called them out for even thinking of heading out that close to dark. 

With a deep inhale, which he blows out hard, Daryl stands back up and wipes a hand over his forehead, then down over his eyes. He spins to move in the other direction and steps right into the butt of a gun. 

Bursts of light take over his sight and a high-pitched ringing sounds loudly in his ears. The world dissolves for a time, and Daryl feels like he’s floating about in nothing at all. And then, with a snap, it all comes back, and he hits the ground.

His crossbow is pulled roughly from his hands and a boot collides with his ribs, tumbling him to his side in a heap. The second he starts to get his arms under him, head shaking to get the world to stop tilting, a foot stomps down in the middle of his back, hard, and knocks the breath from his lungs like it was never there in the first place. 

Struggling for all he is worth, grunts pushing past his lips, Daryl gets enough leverage so that he can look up, straining his neck. There are three men standing around him; the two that he can clearly see have a gun and a bow drawn on him. 

The third, whose foot digs into his back like he’s stomping out a cigarette butt, leans down so that he’s looking Daryl in the face, and says, “Claimed.”

One of the other men snorts. “You’d claim anything, man. Neither of us want some dirty redneck; he’s probably got fleas.” 

“C’mon, you know Dan would fuck anything warm.” The third man grins down at Daryl and bends, pulling the knife from the sheath at Daryl’s hip, then stands again and pushes the toe of his boot against Daryl’s shoulder to flip him onto his back. “This one is kinda pretty, though. If it weren’t for the filth I’d have a mind to claim him myself.” 

“Back off,” says the one that Daryl can now see has long hair and a sagging belly. “I claimed him; he’s mine.”

“Whatever, man.” 

With that two of the men step back a little, leaving the third standing next to Daryl. Seeing an opportunity, Daryl kicks out and hits the back of one the man’s knees, knocking him to the ground. If he can only get to his crossbow, which he can see dangling from the fingers of the man wielding the bow, or to a knife he has a chance to take these fuckers out. Scrambling, Daryl is able to get his feet under him and is up on all fours before the man, who he heard the others call ‘Dan’, literally jumps on his back, pushing him into the ground with the weight of his entire body. 

“You’re a feisty little bitch, huh?” 

The words are said against the side of Daryl’s head, the man’s fetid breath bad enough that Daryl gags. “Ain’t no bitch. Let me up or I’ll rip your fuckin’ balls off and feed them to you.”

“Awe you havin’ trouble controllin’ your little plaything there?” One of the other men calls this out, a leer in his tone. 

Dan, the man who is trying with all of his might to hold Daryl down, gets in a few sharp jabs with his fists against Daryl’s ribs. Daryl instinctively tries to curl away from it, to protect himself, then is overwhelmed by anger and shame. He ain’t no little kid no more; he should be able to work through the pain to fight back properly. 

With the flash of anger comes a hit of adrenaline that allows Daryl the strength to jerk away from the grabbing hands and drag his body out from under the other man. But his head is spinning from the hit he’s taken, and his ribs are protesting something fierce. Yet again he doesn’t make it far before he’s tripped up. 

“Fuckin’ stay still,” Dan says. Then, with a rough backhand that cracks Daryl’s face to the side, he calls out to his companions. “Give me a hand here!”

Daryl is cursing up a storm, thrashing, when the other two get back within arm’s reach. One of them leans down with one fast movement, his hand latching onto Daryl’s hair and jerking his head back to expose his throat. 

Daryl snarls viciously, pulling his head away, but the grip is too tight and all that he achieves is to rip a chunk of hair from his scalp. He feels exposed, vulnerable, and that makes him seethe with anger. 

“Get him up,” says Dan. “Against that tree.”

And suddenly he’s pulled to his feet and the hand in his hair drags him forward; a pressure on his back keeps him moving even as he struggles. He collides face-first with rough bark, and then his arms are pulled forward and tied tightly so that he is hugging the tree. There is almost no slack between his wrists, so that even as he tries to drag the material of his bonds against the bark his skin catches too. 

Within moments Daryl has pulled so viciously at the bonds that he can feel his skin tearing, scuffing away. But they don’t budge an inch, and throughout his struggles he can hear the men laughing. 

“Yeah, squirm you little bitch,” says Dan. He emphasizes ‘bitch’ so it sounds even dirtier, more derogatory. “Makes it even better.”

When Dan presses up against him, hands on his ass through the material of his jeans, and disgusting breath puffing over his neck, Daryl’s stomach curdles, churning, and anger, helplessness, and a plethora of other unnamed emotions are stealing the air from his lungs. He throws his head back in desperation, baring his teeth in some parody of a smile when he impacts solidly with a wet ‘crack’.

“Fuckin’ piece of shit,” says Dan, his consonants blurred. 

Daryl feels a flash of triumph when the body touching his disappears, and he wants to laugh at the sputtering man behind him. And then there is a hand around his throat, fingers slick with fresh blood, pinching hard over his airway, stopping the blood from reaching his head. Black spots begin cropping up around the edges of his sight, and his face feels hot and flushed. His heart is beating a fast staccato in his ears like a herd of horses pounding through his skull, deafening him. 

Daryl starts to buck wildly when the pressure doesn’t let up, twisting and turning. Just before everything goes dark his head is knocked forward into the tree, and at the same time the hand at his throat disappears. 

The world is a blur as Daryl sucks in breath after breath. His mind, between the bashing his skull has taken and the lack of oxygen, is blinking in and out of awareness. When he finally is able to focus again he can feel that his jeans are pooled somewhere around his knees. He is exposed, bound. Trapped. Weak. 

The next thing he hears, beyond the rush of blood in his veins, is the clinking of a belt buckle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter; I hope that you all enjoy! I will probably go through this again tonight and clean up any remaining issues I think of/find, but I'm pretty busy over the next few days, so I wanted to leave this here before I disappeared. 
> 
> Warnings: allusions to non-con, and discussion of injuries (non-explicit) including abrasions, avulsions (skin), and anal fissures.

Rick watches as Daryl disappears into the forest, his shoulders there one second and gone the next. The foliage around the prison makes for excellent cover, which is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand they are provided a fair amount of shielding from the outside world; as long as they don’t make too much noise, they don’t draw in the bigger herds. But they can’t tell what is happening in the vicinity, and are essentially blind past the treeline.

Rick shakes his head to clear the thought away and slips his leather gloves on, then starts in on his chores for the day. It isn’t his problem anymore; and unless he thinks up some solution to the problem that he can take to the counsel, then it isn’t up to him to fix. Maybe he will ask Daryl what they’re thinking to do when he gets back.

Carl joins him less than an hour later, still rubbing the grit from his eyes, and Rick feels a lightness in his heart at the way Carl has taken to laying down their arms. The boy is more a man these days, and the thought would have terrified him not too long ago. But now he needs to know that Carl can take care of himself, with or without a gun in hand.

At some point after lunch Rick starts scanning the treeline repetitively, each time expecting to see Daryl materialise from between the trees. And each time he is disappointed, left giving one last glance and then getting back to work.

Daryl doesn’t tend to leave for more than seven or eight hours at a time, and Rick has become used to keeping an eye out. More than once he’s had to run out and help the other man heft a carcass the rest of the way back to the walls; the two of them together could drag a fair amount of weight in passed the gates and the walkers faster than Daryl alone could.

So when their evening meal comes and passes without hide nor hair of Daryl, Rick meets Glenn’s eyes followed by Michonne’s and tilts his head to the side, indicating his need to talk with them. Maggie, Hershel, Carol, and Sasha come as well; if they hadn’t Rick would have been surprised.

The men and women who have stepped up and are sitting on the Council have risen to the occasion in a fashion that Rick can’t help but be pleased with. He only wishes that Dale could have seen it, the way things are now. He thinks the older man would have approved, would have had a load off of his mind and soul to see what has become of the group. Rick made a vow after Dale died to do things his way, and though he might not have succeeded all the way, he thinks this is a pretty good legacy.

They gather around a metal table, Michonne pulling out a map of Georgia and spreading it out. Rick nods at her in thanks.

“When did he leave?” Hershel asks.

“About five thirty this mornin’,” Rick says. “Said he was headin’ northwest toward the Chattahoochee River.” Rick points down to the map, tapping his finger on the blue line of the river.

“That ain’t too far out,” says Maggie. “Only about six miles at most.”

“Far enough,” says Hershel, frowning. “Especially on foot.”

“It’s after six now. We have just over an hour of light left.” Maggie’s eyes look to a window, where the sky is a deep shade of blue. “There’s a build-up of walkers at the gate – it’ll be one heck of a fight getting’ back in, especially if we can’t spot them at a distance.”

“We go on foot,” says Glenn. “Go out and back in through the holes in the fence we’ve got away from the clusters.”

Michonne nods at Glenn’s words. “We can do it. Have to be a small group, though.”

Rick frowns, hands moving to settle on his hips more to stop his finger from moving than anything else. “We need the light. If we go now we risk all of us havin’ to wait out the night. Besides that, if Daryl got into trouble he knows we will be coming for him come mornin’. He’ll hole up and wait if he needs to.” Rick hopes his words sound more confident to the others’ ears than his own.

“But Rick,” says Glenn, “what if he can’t wait.”

Rick swallows hard. “He’ll have to.”

Carol nods. “Daryl can hold his own.”

“If he’s not back in another two hours we’ll hold a meeting and make plans for the morning,” says Hershel.

After that they stand still for a moment, as though there has been something left unsaid that no one can bring themselves to voice. And then, one by one, they disperse.

Rick doesn’t move, though, and he thinks that he has been left alone until Hershel pats his shoulder.

“You’ll go with them?”

Rick nods. “Yeah. Make sure they know,” he says. The Council will make the calls, but he won’t be left out of this.

 

 

 

* * *

 

Rick, Michonne, and Glenn leave the next morning just before dawn after a sleepless night. They go out through the holes they’ve cut in the fences, securing the links behind them, and head in the direction that Daryl went.

The forest looks denser than it did the last time Rick went out, and his steps are loud and clumsy feeling. But he’s on high alert, eyes taking in everything they can, and ears listening for anything that could tell them which way to go.

They fan out far enough apart that they can do some good, but close enough that they are always within sight.

It is an hour and about two miles before they get the slightest hint that they are close to where Daryl has been. Glenn is the one who notices the boot print in the wet ground, and when Rick finishes looking at it, the way the toe is deeper in the mud than the heel, he nods at the other man.

“Could be his,” he says. It’s hard to tell, though, because all of their boots have long since had the treads worn off, and they don’t make a habit of memorizing shoe prints for each of the group. Though perhaps they should try. “It’s the best lead we have. Good eye, Glenn.”

Twenty minutes later, still moving slow and careful over the terrain, Michonne lets out a short, sharp whistle. Rick moves to where she is, eyes searching all around and knife gripped tight.

“See that?” Michonne says, pointing to the ground ahead.

The grass is flattened and kicked up, mixing with the mud and dirt beneath in dark smears. Rick takes it in and nods. “Yeah. One hell of a fight or a big group. Maybe a herd?”

Michonne shrugs. “Could be, but the trees are close in here and it looks like something was dragged, or laid down and got up fast.”

“Guys,” says Glenn, voice sharp. Then he uses his chin to point a little to their left.

From where he is Rick can’t see much, but the moment he takes a step to the right he is greeted with the sight of a tree trunk painted rusty with blood, and there, at the bottom, a pair of hands tied tight. And then Rick notices a face leaned into the bark, shaggy dark hair falling to partly cover closed eyes.

Daryl doesn’t seem to be conscious, isn’t moving, and Rick breaks into a run. When he gets within a few feet he drops to his knees and pulls his knife from its sheath, his other hand moving carefully out to touch Daryl’s hair. He can’t see any bites on his exposed arms, but there’s a lot of ways to die in this world. At the last moment he pulls away, and instead says, “Daryl?”

Daryl groans softly and his eyes flutter a little, but not enough for Rick to see if they are the clear blue he is used to seeing, or if they are clouded-over and dead. Heart squeezing because he wants nothing more than to cut the bonds around Daryl’s wrists, Rick leans a little closer, ducking his head so he has a clear view of Daryl’s face. “Hey – you with me?”

“Is he alive?” Glenn comes to stand beside Rick, the machete in his hand gripped tight but pointed to the ground.

Rick looks up at the other man sharply, then focuses back on Daryl. The man’s face is a mess of blood and bruising, scrapes decorating his forehead, cheeks and chin. “Daryl. Wake up.” His voice raises at the end, and echoes around louder than he’d intended.

With another soft groan, Daryl’s eyes finally open just a sliver, the lashes clumped and spiked. “Rick?”

At the sound of his name Rick breathes in relief and immediately reaches out, cutting the rope tying Daryl’s hands together with one quick swipe of his blade. The man’s arms fall away, and Rick swallows hard at the sight of blood and skin clinging to the bark of the tree where Daryl has tried to break loose.

As his arms change position Daryl groans low, but he doesn’t move to stand up or look around. His eyes are closed again, but they are squeezed tightly together as he rides out the pain of his stiff muscles adjusting, not in unconsciousness. Rick imagines his hands are smarting as well, probably with zings and shots of electric pain as the blood starts to flow properly.

“Rick,” Michonne says, her voice an urgent whisper.

Rick glances over, and Michonne points, mouthing ‘walkers’. Rick curses once under his breath, then pinches his lips together and looks to Glenn. “Let’s get him up,” he says, barely audible.

As he and Glenn move, Rick is greeted with the full picture of how Daryl is positioned. The man’s upper body is leaned up against the tree, which he could tell before, but Daryl’s legs are curled under him tightly. And his pants are around his knees.

Rick swallows to keep from gasping – or gagging, he’s not sure – and hears Glenn make a little noise of surprise beside him. Rick’s eyes meet Glenn’s, but before either of them can come up with a response, the sound of a scuffle a little ways away catches their attention.

Michonne has left to dispatch the walkers coming their way, and Rick can see her taking on at least ten. So he makes a decision. “Go,” he says, “help Michonne. Then get back here. I’ll get Daryl up.”

Glenn nods, hesitates for a second, and then heads off to help Michonne at a run.

Rick licks his lips, squeezes his eyes shut for one impossibly long second. And then he kneels down and gently puts one hand on Daryl’s shoulder. “Can you walk?”

Daryl shakes himself a bit, seems to think on it, and then says, “Yeah. Think so. Jus’ – Jus’ gimme a bit.” Daryl’s fingers grab at the waist of his pants, shaking as he tries to pull the jeans back up. They are trapped under his own legs, though, and he barely gets them far enough to cover himself.

Rick watches, hands jerking every few seconds in a bid to help, but he doesn’t know if he should. He doesn’t know if Daryl will want his help with this. Doesn’t know what he can do without making this whole situation worse.

“Help me up,” Daryl says then, pushing up with his legs but not taking his weight away from the tree.

Rick throws an arm around Daryl, pointedly not reacting when Daryl flinches at the feel of Rick’s hand grabbing his waist, and helps the man to stand fully.

Daryl finally gets his jeans up the rest of the way, and fumbles with the zipper and button like he can’t quite remember how to work them. He gets them done up just in time.

Glenn and Michonne run back to them, walker blood clinging to their weapons and arms.

“We gotta go, Rick,” Glenn says.

“There’s a herd somewhere near,” says Michonne. “We’re on the fringes – there’ll be more soon.”

“Alright,” says Rick. “You good to go?”

Daryl grunts, then takes a tentative step, then another. Rick holds on tight, noticing the way Daryl’s legs want to give out with every step, but the man won’t let himself drop.

Glenn comes up to Daryl’s other side, slinging Daryl’s arm over his shoulders. “Let’s go home.”

With both Rick and Glenn taking some of Daryl’s weight they make good time, and Rick knows that Michonne has all of them covered, her katana at ready and keen eyes scanning this way and that.

 

 

 

* * *

 

When they get within sight of the prison Daryl straightens up, shakes both Rick and Glenn off, and evens out his gait. If it weren’t for the bruises and blood, Rick wouldn’t be able to tell that something was wrong.

At least, not physically. Daryl’s eyes, however, practically scream another story. They are shadowed, ringed in circles darker than usual, and they have been fluctuating between hyper-aware and dull.

Rick whistles sharply as they make their way passed the treeline, and realizes immediately that there was no need. Carl and Tyreese are standing at the gates, ready to open them when they get closer.

He can see Carol, Sasha, Maggie, and a handful of others at the fences with various weapons, a thick pile of walkers laying still all along. They have been working hard to take out as many as they can for when their missing members return.

“You need a hand the rest of the way?” Rick asks, unsure of what Daryl wants or needs, and hating that indecision powerfully.

Daryl glances at him, and away again just as quick. “I got it.”

“Alright,” says Rick. But he stays close, ready to grab Daryl’s elbow, or throw an arm around him, if need be.

With a nod at Michonne and Glenn, they make for the gate, each of them flanking Daryl who is moving stiffly, and is without his crossbow. There are only about ten walkers who disengage from the fences to go for their small group, and of those three make it to them. Michonne slices clean through two at once, with Glenn easily taking the other down.

And just like that they are inside the gates and safe; home.

Rick smiles at Carl, who gives him a quick hug, and looks around. Everyone is smiling, happy to see them back, even if Daryl looks a little worse for wear. Carol is smiling bright, relief evidence in the soft lines of her shoulders.

But when he turns to where Daryl is standing stock-still the grin drops from his lips.

Daryl has what Rick thinks is called the ‘thousand-yard stare’, and there is a twist to his lips that Rick hasn’t seen since they left the farm. It is discomfort, distance; an insecure and unsure twist that makes something in Rick’s gut clench.

As the others come closer, all understandably wanting to greet them, Rick sees Daryl’s shoulders tense even further, and his weight begins to shift, like he’s getting ready to move.

Instead of letting that happen, Rick steps forward. “Let’s get you inside,” he says quietly to Daryl.

Daryl nods, a barely visible movement, and starts walking. Rick follows, and he sees Glenn do the same.

“We should get Caleb,” says Glenn. That Hershel will be there is an unspoken rule for them, but now that they have a doctor who was trained to treat human patients, he tends to be involved in anything more serious.

“’M fine,” says Daryl. He is still walking a little ahead of them, eyes barely blinking.

“Daryl,” says Glenn. “You’re not.”

Rick knows that Glenn saw the same thing as he did when they were getting Daryl, and he can’t help but be glad not to be the one to point it out.

Daryl’s lips twitch open, then shut again, and he doesn’t look up.

Hershel meets them at the entrance to C Block, eyes taking in the visible bruises and scrapes on Daryl’s skin. “Caleb is waiting for us,” he says.

Glenn opens his mouth, but Rick looks at him sharply, warning in his eyes. “We’ll get him there,” he says, tilting his head to Hershel.

Glenn looks like he might want to protest, but instead nods in understanding. “I’ll see you later, Daryl. Glad to have you back,” he says, and then makes his way back outside, likely to see Maggie.

They lead Daryl into an isolation cell that they have converted into a make-shift doctor’s office, the supplies in toolboxes, and the rest of the space as clean as they can get it. Caleb is already inside organizing supplies to clean the cuts and abrasions, pulling out a suture needle and thread.

Rick pulls Hershel to the side once Daryl has slipped into the room as well, one hand on the man’s arm, stopping him from going in.

Hershel looks at Rick, assessing.

Rick swallows, licks his kips, then says, “When we found him-” He cuts off and pauses, struggling with the words. “When we found him, he was tied to a tree.”

Hershel nods. “And?”

Voice dipping to barely a whisper, Rick leans in close. “And his pants were down.”

Sucking in one harsh breath, Hershel says, “Alright. We’ll deal with it.” He then reaches out and grips Rick’s shoulder, squeezing tight. “You brought him home.”

Eyes closing, some unknown feeling in his chest, Rick’s chin drops so it is nearly touching his chest. “Yeah.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

Hershel steps into the room with Caleb and Daryl just as Daryl is stripping off his shirt. The ever-present vest is already laid down over the back of a chair.

Daryl doesn’t make a sound as he sits on the edge of the bed stiffly, not looking at either one of them. It doesn’t look like he wants to be a particularly engaged participant in this, but neither does it look like he wants to run out the door. It’s almost as though he just hasn’t thought about it; like he is going through the motions.

“Why don’t we start with getting your face cleaned up?” Caleb suggests this, and Hershel watches as Daryl gives a one-shoulder shrug while tipping his head up enough that they can see the damage.

There is one particularly deep cut over Daryl’s left eye that they stitch together, but the majority of their time is spent cleaning out the various abrasions adorning Daryl’s face.

When they get to cleaning out the wounds on Daryl’s wrists and forearms, Caleb clicks his tongue quietly and says, “Looks like there are some full thickness avulsions of the skin in some places. I’ll clean up the wounds and stitch them together; hopefully we’ll avoid infection that way.”

All through it Daryl doesn’t do more than breathe a little deeper when he’s obviously in pain. Hershel’s never seen the man this docile before. Even when he’d stitched up his side and head back at the farm, Daryl had been a bundle of restless energy, constantly shifting about. It made for one of the most challenging set of stitches he’d ever done on a human patient.

But this time it is entirely different. And Hershel wishes he had an easy fix for the pain the man is going through; wishes he could think of some words to help along the healing. It would seem, however, that none are adequate.

When they finish dealing with what they can see, including diagnosing one cracked rib amongst a cluster of bruised ones, Caleb pulls off his gloves and smiles at Daryl. “Looks good. We’ll keep an eye on the stitches, remove them in a week or so.”

Daryl nods, eyes fixed on his own fingers.

Hershel marshals himself, and says, “Just a minute, Caleb.” Then he leans forward, tilting his head to try and see Daryl’s eyes. “How badly are you hurt elsewhere?”

Daryl’s nostrils flare and his mouth twitches as he chews on his lips. “’S nothin’.”

“Son, we can’t help you if you don’t let us know.” Hershel’s eyes scan Daryl’s posture, watching as Daryl’s entire body starts locking up with tension. After a few moment of silence, Hershel sighs a little, sadly. “Daryl-”

“I ain’t no woman,” says Daryl, his voice almost a growl. “Ain’t in need of your pity.”

“Daryl…” Hershel stops, then starts again. “Woman or not, there isn’t a person on this earth that has any right-”

Daryl cuts Hershel off again, this time saying, “It’s fine. Leave it.”

Having caught on to what the conversation is about, Caleb says, “We need to see how bad the fissures are.”

“Said ‘m fine.” Daryl looks ready to bolt, hands clenched tight and eyes darting to the door.

Hershel meets Caleb’s eyes, and they mutually give the equivalent of a mental shrug. There wouldn’t be much they could do unless they wanted to trade physical health for mental health. And really, they’d have one hell of a fight on their hands if they decided to push this; some battles just weren’t worth fighting.

“Okay,” says Caleb. “But only if you can be sure you aren’t still bleeding.”

Daryl’s lips quiver and pinch together, but he shakes his head roughly. “Ain’t.”

“And that you’ll come see one of us if there’s more than a little bleeding, or if you don’t heal in the next three weeks. If left too long, these things can cause a lot of trouble; damage to soft tissue there can re-open again and again, especially if passing a hard stool.”

Hershel nods. “And Daryl, if there’s an infection things could go very badly, and fast. You need to keep an eye on it.”

Caleb nods. “There is always a possibility, especially with the way the fissures were made. But they aren’t as susceptible to infection as you’d think. What you really need to worry about is your diet; less red meat, more fibre.”

“I got it,” Daryl says, the words dragged out like his throat is closing in on itself, weak and thready. “We done?”

Hershel’s eyes take in the way Daryl’s head dips, his hair hiding the sutures they’d put in his forehead and the deep abrasions all around, and how his wrists and arms are scrapped up so badly that in places there is more skin missing than there. But instead of delaying, he says, “Yes. We’re done.”


	3. Chapter 3

Daryl walks out of the room as quickly as he can, the stiffness in his body nothing compared to the need to get away. He usually ain’t too afraid of admitting, even if only to himself, when he needs to give in and get some stitches, or let Hershel, or now Doctor S, look at him. After all, these days an untended injury can become your greatest weakness.

That don’t mean he’s constantly running to get every little scrape looked over, but there are some things that you can’t keep to yourself.

Except this.

Daryl makes his way to the corner of the perch in C Block where he has his things, and grabs the old rucksack with extra clothes inside. As he slings it over his shoulder, he sees Beth holding Judith, and the look in her eyes says she wants to say something, so before she can he slips away.

The showers they have rigged up work, but Daryl has always preferred to jump in a river or a lake; unfortunately, that is not an option this time. When he arrives at the communal shower area, he scans the room in one thorough sweep, then slips inside.

The doors don’t have a lock, but he solves that by slipping his belt off and threading it through the handles, tying it off tightly. He makes sure to thread the buckle through properly, then tugs at it.

Once he’s sure the door ain’t going to open, Daryl stands in place with his bag hanging from one hand. He knows what he needs to do, but his mind is filled with mud, his thoughts struggling through the thick muck.

But he doesn’t have to think to do this. All he needs to do is start moving, and let his body do the rest.

And then, without remembering how he got there, he’s stripped down and under a cool stream of water. His hair hangs in thick strands around his face, and he can’t help but flinch as his wrists, bandages and all, are soaked through.

His eyes land on a bar of soap, and he takes it in hand. The first pass over his body, scrubbing in rough movements, Daryl’s eyes don’t move from their fixture on some distant point. The water stops running as he scrubs the soap into his hair, and he reaches out one-handed and pumps the lever of the hand-pump. The stream starts anew, and so does he.

On the third pass Daryl’s hand slips down between his legs automatically, running through his pubic hair and over his dick. The pain surprises him. His eyes seek out the source, and he wishes he had never looked, that he could keep this from his eyes forever.

Dark blue and purple bruises, like a smudged finger painting, circle the shaft of his dick. They stand out vividly, swollen and grotesque on his skin. The sight of it is momentarily replaced by the feeling of strong fingers grasping him far too tightly and the sight of a hand that is not his own, like his eyes have unfocused and some other vision has taken over.

Disgusted, bile rising thin and sour into his mouth, Daryl ignores the pain while he scrubs himself brisk and rough. When he reaches back behind his balls the pain is so sharp that he gasps and jerks his hand away.

With a gruff moan that he cuts off mid-way, Daryl clenches the soap hard, and then lashes out; the soap clatters to the group somewhere across the room.

Moving in jerking spasms, Daryl spins to the water barrel, pumps the lever several times, then turns his back to the spray. He splays his legs wide, and tries not to react as water sluices over the skin of his back, and then between his legs.

He can’t bear to touch it, where the ache comes from, but he ain’t about to just leave it, either.

The barrel is empty, all fifty-sum-odd galleons of it, when he uses a frayed towel to scrub at his skin. And despite knowing how precious water is, he can’t care. If there were any more in the room, he’d use it too.

He dresses then leaves the shower room, and is hit with the realization that he doesn’t know what to do. If this were the end of a normal run gone wrong, they’d meet up with the Council and debrief. But this ain’t like that, there’s no one else that can explain. He’ll have to, at some point.

But there ain’t no way Daryl is going to go to them.

An hour later Daryl’s waiting for one of them to come asking by staying near to C Block, waiting it out in hundreds of passes across the second level, his feet in constant movement as he paces.

He is leaning against the railing, eyes staring unseeingly at the concrete walls, when he hears footsteps coming his way.

When he sees that it is Rick who climbs the stairs, boots clanking on the metal, Daryl doesn’t know what to feel. Relief, he thinks, would be good. Or maybe betrayal. He’d almost take anything at this point.

Rick stops before he reaches Daryl and leans against the railing next to him, elbow only inches from Daryl’s. Just yesterday the closeness would have been a balm to his nerves, a stopper on the constant need that has crawled within Daryl’s skin and burrowed in deep. Now – well, now everything is different.

It’s like some giant, invisible wall has come down all around him, separating him from everything else, and taking all feeling with it. It leaves him numb, hollow, and yet full to the bursting with some unknown thing that he can’t describe. Even his memories are like watching a movie with the sound off.

When Rick doesn’t speak for a while, Daryl says, “The Council send you?”

Rick snorts. “N’aw. I volunteered.”

Daryl hums, then finds himself picking at the edges of the bandages wrapped around his wrists. They are still damp, which Daryl knows isn’t good, but he can’t imagine wanting to do anything about it. “I only saw three of them. Way they talked, though, they were part of a bigger group.”

Rick shifts his weight, leans harder on the rail. “They mention a camp?”

Daryl shakes his head in negation. “Can’t be sure, though. Ain’t like the topic came up.”

“Think they know about the prison?” Rick asks.

“Don’t think so. Or if they did, they didn’t ask if I was from here.”

“That’s somethin’,” says Rick. He stands up and leans his hip against the rail so that he’s now facing Daryl.

“It’s somethin’,” Daryl says, repeating Rick’s words. Rolling them on his tongue. It sure is.

“Look, Daryl,” Rick says, then sighs.

The gruffness of Rick’s voice compels Daryl to look over at the other man, catching on the vibrant blue of his eyes.

“I don’t know what to say here.” Rick looks so lost, like he’s the one who’s drowning.

Daryl shakes his head, then stands up and turns away. “There ain’t nothin’ to say,” he says. Then with one last glance at Rick, walks away.

Nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

Daryl settles onto the mattress he’s kept on the perch since that first night at the prison, leaning most of his weight onto one side. The pain radiating from his backside is a throbbing, burning ache that he can feel in his chest as well. It tightens his throat and takes his breath away.

His injuries are nothing compared to what he’s dealt with before. But there is something that makes this pain different, worse, than any before. Before.

Everything is divided now. He can see it so clearly, can feel it. Before. After.

Him.

Everyone else.

It’s like he’s floating along with the currents of a lazy river; the water is warm, stiflingly so, and he can’t move at all. His head dips under, and just when he can’t take another second, he emerges again. Through it all he can see empty banks, trees motionless without a breeze. And he’s numb to everything, just adrift, and watches the world pass by.

Exhaustion kicks in. He falls asleep without realizing it is happening, and dreams of copper skies and an empty forest.

His eyes open, and all he sees is the dark space overhead. There is no noise, no indication of why he’s awake. But somewhere in his mind a warning goes off, his nape tingling as his hair stands on end.

He lies still, breathing so shallow that his chest hardly moves, and waits for it to come. He might not know what it is, but he won’t let it surprise him. He’ll be ready.

After what feels like an hour, but in reality is less than ten minutes, he can’t take waiting any longer. With a near-silent sigh he sits up, wincing at the way his ribs twinge, and gets to his feet.

Daryl automatically reaches for his crossbow, and his heart clenches harder than his empty fist when there is nothing but air to grab at. It’s a blow worse than anything physical, that it is gone.

The hesitation only last a moment, then Daryl slides a knife into the sheath on his belt, and moves with light footsteps down to the main level, and then outside.

It’s mid-August, so the night is warm. The fences glint dully in the pale light of the moon, and the links look so thin, like fishing line, that Daryl briefly wonders how the hell they keep anything out at all. All it would take is one weak link. One little opening. And then anything, anyone, could get in.

His eyes scan the fences, taking in every detail, but in the dark he can’t see as much as he would like. So he gets closer, walking the perimeter over and over, hands tugging at the links to see how they are holding up, and the whole time he keeps an eye on the treeline.

The sun comes up, and he hears the occasional voice, so with one last pass, he makes his way back into the prison. He makes sure to avoid everyone he might come across, and heads for the generator room. Not many people end up in there.

 

* * *

 

After debriefing Daryl, Rick tries to give the man some space. Daryl’s body language had practically screamed for everyone to stay away, and his eyes had strayed to look anywhere but into Rick’s face. That wasn’t so unusual, but in the past months Daryl had been more and more open with Rick, with all of them, and to see him close down again was painful.

Two days pass, and Rick doesn’t see Daryl except in the distance when the man is pacing the fence lines. He thinks he might hear footsteps walking the halls in the night, checking the doors, and he knows if anyone is out there its Daryl.

Rick has just finished doing his rounds down where the garden is starting to grow, has fed the sow that they had captured last week, and checked to make sure her enclosure was doing the job well enough. He’s satisfied with what he’s accomplished; what he, Carl, and Hershel have, really.

It’s something that they can rely on in the future, something that can help their whole group without risking hurt as well. And it’s a balm to his weary mind, especially being able to see his boy taking pleasure in working earth, and watching their hard work sprout from the ground.

He makes it to the commissary they’ve put together outside, and smiles at the various people who look up from their breakfast as he walks by. Some of them smile back, some don’t, but none of them look at him with wary suspicion, which he will take as a success.

Carol is behind the counter with a pile of bowls to one side, and two pots on the other. One is filled with noodles, the other with chunks of meat.

“Good morning,” says Carol. She smiles at Rick, but her lips have a worried tilt to them.

“Mornin’,” says Rick as he leans against the counter. Carol hands him a bowl, and he takes it with a nod of gratitude.

“Have you seen Daryl around?” Carol looks intently at Rick.

Rick wants to protest that he isn’t the best source of information for all things Daryl Dixon, but after the last few months he thinks he just might be. “Not today. Didn’t he come by yet?”

Carol shakes her head. “I haven’t seen him here since before – well, before you brought him back.”

Rick licks his lips, shifting his weight. That makes it at least three days since Daryl’s come for a meal; it doesn’t mean that he hasn’t eaten at all, but it fills Rick with concern. With a nod, mostly to himself, Rick says, “I’ll find him. Mind putting together another bowl?”

Carol smiles, then fills a bowl for Daryl. Rick can’t help but notice that it has more in it than his does.

“You ever going to say what happened out there? Most of the Council doesn’t even know,” says Carol.

“Ain’t nothin’ we need to tell everybody about. Just need to be more careful outside the fences.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Rick shakes his head. “If Daryl wants to tell you about it, he will.”

With that, Rick walks away, a bowl in each hand. He checks the perch first, since it’s where he’d seen Daryl pacing the day before around this time, then makes his way out to the yard, squinting into the morning sun that paints the grass red-gold. He skirts around D Block, and once he’s passed the corner of the building he can see Daryl leaning against the side of tower two. The lack of crossbow on the man’s back sends a jolt through Rick, and he feels emotion twist in his chest.

As Rick gets closer, he can see the exhausted slump of Daryl’s shoulders, which is a sharp contrast to the way his fingers are clenched, and how he is scanning the clearing around the fences attentively.

Daryl hears him coming before Rick has even made it through the first fence line, and he turns to look at Rick, then back again. It’s a relief that Daryl keeps his back to him without much thought, but Rick feels that it is a guilty relief; he should be more worried about what else is troubling his friend rather than how Daryl reacts to his presence.

Not speaking as he comes to stand near Daryl, Rick nudges a bowl against Daryl’s elbow to get his attention.

Daryl looks at the bowl for a moment, throat moving in a swallow, then says, “’M good.”

Rick pushes the bowl more forcefully toward Daryl, eyebrows raised and eyes intense.

Daryl looks to the bowl again, then to Rick, his features tense. “Said I’m good.”

“I know what you said,” Rick says. “But Daryl, you need to eat somethin’. Carol told me she ain’t seen you at meals for a couple’a days.”

“Leave it,” Daryl says, voice rough, and a flush raising on his cheeks.

Rick shakes his head, then moves so that he is leaned up against the tower as well, making sure to keep some distance between himself and Daryl. And then feels guilty that he did, because he just isn’t sure how to act; or how Daryl wants him to act. “I can’t do that.”

Daryl glances at him from the corner of his eyes, which are just barely visible through the strands of his hair. “What you gonna do? Shove it down my throat?”

Recoiling internally from Daryl’s words, Rick doesn’t know how to respond. The way Daryl had said the word, quiet but direct, was like a knife piercing him with every syllable, making him bleed inside. Instead of answering, Rick pulls the bowl back toward his own chest.

After that they don’t talk, and with the sun raising higher alongside the heat, Daryl pushes off the tower and leaves, not even looking in Rick’s direction again. Rick stares at his back, left alone holding two cold, uneaten bowls of food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, each and every one of you, for taking the time to read, and leave kudos and/or comments. I really appreciate it! I hope that you have continued to enjoy this :)


	4. Chapter 4

He is organising medical supplies, making a list of what they will be needing sooner rather than later, when Rick appears in the doorway. Rick doesn’t move into the room, hesitating, and his fingers move along his belt to settle on his hip in what Hershel knows is a nervous habit, always searching for the gun that had been there for years.

Hershel speaks before Rick can announce himself. “We need to start growing medicinal herbs. Soon we aren’t going to be able to keep scavenging medicine, and we need to prepare for that.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Rick says in agreement. “You’ll have to show us what we need, though.”

After a moment of silence, the only noise being from Hershel as he shuffles through the bandages, Rick speaks again.

“I need to talk to you about Daryl.”

Hershel’s hands stop moving and pull away from the supplies, and he turns to look at Rick fully, resting his elbows on his thighs. “What’s wrong?”

“He hasn’t eaten in days. Probably since before he left on the hunt. He ain’t sleeping, neither.”

Hershel nods as Rick speaks, and feels a great deal of sympathy for the worry he sees in the lines of Rick’s face. That something like this could happen is not as surprising as it should be; what is, at least to Hershel’s mind, is who it happened to.

None of them know what to do. Hershel can mend the body, but how does one even start to heal what is done to the mind? He thinks he has Rick and Carl set on a good path, but with Daryl, it’ll take a lot more than tilling the fields. For now, though, he can focus on healing Daryl’s body, and worry about his mind after that.

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Thank you,” says Rick.

 

-

 

Hershel doesn't see Daryl until after sundown, and he wants to pin the man in place so he doesn't have to hobble after him all around the prison. Daryl had been by the fences when Hershel had first spotted him, but had disappeared into C Block before Hershel had even started out toward him. Fortunately, Hershel finds him sitting with his back to the wall at the top of the stairs in C Block, legs bent and forearms resting on his knees.

Daryl doesn't look surprised to see him when he gets to the top of the stairs, but rather seems resigned and reluctant all at once.

"Rick talk to ya?" Daryl chews on the skin around his thumb, pulling at hangnails with his teeth.

"He did," says Hershel. "Said you hadn't been eating. Hardly sleeping."

Daryl shrugs with one shoulder. "Ain't hungry."

Hershel hums, not in agreement, but in a way that says he knows that Daryl is lying. "How bad was the bleeding? Did it stop quickly?"

Shoulders rising almost to his ears, and hand jerking away from his mouth, Daryl says, "What you on about?" He then looks around, seeming to relax just a little when he sees that no one else is near enough to hear their conversation.

"You know what I mean. It had to have been pretty bad if you've given up eating solids completely." Hershel gives up on standing, and instead leans over, then plops down onto the edge of Daryl's mattress.

Daryl's lips are trembling a bit when he croaks out an answer, his voice so low that it is almost inaudible. "Felt like shittin' glass."

Hershel hums again, this time in understanding. "There are a lot of nerves in the anus. Tends to be more sensitive to pain."

Daryl glares over at him, fingers clenching in the material of his vest as he practically hugs himself. "No shit."

Before he can stop himself, Hershel says, "Quite the opposite." He internally cringes.

For a moment Daryl is still and silent, but then he snorts. "Not if I can help it."

Hershel sighs. “You need to eat.” He raises a hand when Daryl looks ready to protest, and continues speaking. “We can stick to clear liquids for a time, and work up to some fruit. But you need to eat so that you can heal; and you need to drink a lot of fluids.”

“We ain’t got much fruit to go around on the best of days, even if you’ve got Rick steppin’ up as Farmer Joe.” Daryl glares down at his own hands, mouth moving as he chews on his lip.

“We’ll make do,” says Hershel, looking at Daryl sternly. “I happen to know that they’ve got some canned peaches and pears stashed away. What’s important right now is that you start to heal.”

Hershel doesn’t need to tack ‘physically’ on to the sentence, but that is what he knows he meant. He wonders if Daryl understood that, and knows that they care about him as a whole, not just as an asset to their survival.

Daryl doesn’t say anything, and from the set of his shoulders and by the intensity of his avoidance of looking anywhere near him, Hershel knows that the conversation is over. He’ll just have to make sure Daryl takes his advice, even if the man doesn’t want to.

 

-

 

Hershel leaves, and then Daryl is alone with the numbness that has taken over his mind. He shouldn't have even thought about it, much less talked about it with Hershel; if he could feel a thing he thinks it would be shame. But it is like a static charge is building in his head, crackling and buzzing between his ears, not letting him think about anything for more than a moment.

He needs to get over this, and move on. This ain’t anywhere near as bad a hurt as he’s had before; why the hell is he bitching about it to Hershel for? Should have told the old man to fuck off and mind his own.

There ain’t no way that Daryl is going to be eating all that fruit to himself, neither. There are a whole lot of kids around these days, and they need the vitamins and whatnot more than he needs some fiber. He’ll just have to figure something else out; besides that, he’s lasted well enough on short rations before. A week or two of liquids won’t be so bad.

And then, once he’s healed, once there ain’t no more blatant reminders of what happened, he can move on. Forget it ever happened.

He stays lost in his mind, eyes staring at his hands which are still except for an occasional twitch for a long time. No one approaches him, and when the light fades away he doesn't move. He still doesn't move when the voices die down, and everything is dark and quiet.

With a sudden jerk Daryl realises he’d fallen asleep, head bobbing so that his chin taps against his chest. Blinking his eyes, he shifts, getting a little more comfortable where he is leaned up against the wall.

But then something makes his hackles rise, and a tingle crawls up his spine. He can feel their eyes on him, knows there is someone out there, and he jerks his gaze up. His eyes struggle to see through the dark, and the shadows waver and morph into one another, seeming to move about as though alive. As though they could be hiding something in their depths.

Breath starting to come in gasps, throat tight and eyes wild, Daryl stands up swiftly, swaying as his head swims. His vision darkens around the edges, his ears feel as though cotton has been stuffed into them, and he shakes his head sharply to bring the world back into some sort of focus.

Daryl can’t see anything out there, and he suddenly feels exposed. Vulnerable.

It is the first time he’s felt so open to attack within the walls of the prison in months, and he realizes just how easily someone could get the drop on him here on the perch. He’s backed into a dead end with three points of attack right in front of him, and he ain’t even got his crossbow to defend himself now.

Daryl grabs the knife at his hip with shaking fingers, gripping the hilt tight. He needs to find somewhere secure that he can defend himself better, maybe even close his eyes for just a few moments. He won’t risk letting his guard down out in the open, where he can’t keep track of who gets close to his position, and he shouldn’t have done so this whole damn time. Maybe if he’d just kept his head on straight, if he hadn’t gotten so comfortable, then he wouldn’t have let –

But no. He ain’t thinking about that.

So, stumbling a little and on high alert, he bypasses the stairs, then turns, walking passed Rick’s cell and toward the back corner of C Block. These cells aren’t occupied yet, and he knows there is one right at the end of the row that no one is in.

He gets to the open door of the cell and pauses, breathing so unsteady now that he feels as though he has just run for five miles. He’s never spent more time than he’s had to in the cells; they are small, constraining, everything that he doesn’t want to end up in. A cage.

But then he’s inside, swinging the door shut behind him. The locks don’t work individually, and even though the door is closed, it means nothing. Almost frantic, he casts his eyes about, searching the small space for something, anything he can use to keep the door closed.

He’s about ready to rip the door back open, maybe make for the tombs, when he sees a piece of wood peeking out from under the bunk.

He grabs it, then turns it over in his hands a few times. It’s just a wedge of wood, but it’s strong, and the angle is just right. Shoving the wedge under the door, he presses until it won’t move any further, then gives it a few hard kicks.

When he pulls at the door it doesn’t move, so he nods a little in satisfaction. If anyone tries to get in he’ll hear them, and the door being jammed shut will give him enough time to get his knife out.

Tomorrow he’ll grab a padlock and some chain. For tonight, he’ll keep watch.

 

-

 

Carol wakes early to the sound of Rick’s alarm going off. It isn’t particularly loud, and some days she closes her eyes for a few more minutes of rest, but today it feels as though a thousand streams of thought are competing for attention in her mind. One, which is much more persistent than the others, wonders if she will see Daryl today.

After dressing in new clothes for the day, Carol steps out of her cell and smiles at Beth, who is sitting on the wooden bench across the way feeding Judith. A glance upward shows that Daryl isn’t on the perch, which she didn’t expect him to be, as he always seems to be awake when anyone else crawls out of bed.

She exchanges greetings with Beth, runs a gentle hand over Judith’s downy hair, then Carol goes outside to the commissary.

One of the newcomers from Woodbury has already started up the grill, and is slowly adding what fresh vegetables they have available, which isn’t much, to a large pot of stock they’d made by boiling out some rabbits the day before.

“G’morning,” says Carol.

The man, who she thinks is named Alex, smiles at her.

They work for a time, the stock slowly gaining some substance as they dice and add what they can. Carol used to cook for every meal, back when she was with Ed, and she has picked up her fair share of skills in the kitchen. But when you’re working with what you can scavenge from the land, and from a fledgling garden, the combinations tend to be pretty sparse.

At least they aren’t back to what it had been like after the farm, during that long, cold winter of constant movement.

Carol starts handing out bowls as people come out into the morning air. It’s while she is saying good morning to Karen that she sees Daryl come out of C Block and down the stairs; the man doesn’t make for her, however, and instead hangs back at the outskirts of the courtyard like he’s not sure exactly what he is doing.

Carol frowns as she takes in his face, drawn and haggard, and contemplates dragging him over and sitting him down to watch him eat at least something. She is stopped, however, when Hershel limps up to Daryl and says something quiet.

Color rises on Daryl’s face, and he looks about ready to haul back and deck Hershel for whatever he said, but then he reins it in, nodding in what looks to be defeat.

Then Hershel heads her way, his kind face looking a little older than it had recently.

“Everything alright?” Carol says as she fills a bowl and hands it to him.

Hershel sighs, a little exhale of breath that says more than any words could, and looks at the pot bubbling on the grill. “Would you mind getting a bowl with just broth?”

Carols eyebrows knit together, and she nods. As she hands the bowl over, she catches sight of Daryl pacing along the brick wall of C Block. She knows that Daryl was attacked out on that last hunt, had heard what little information Rick had gathered when he’d debriefed Daryl, and saw the way Rick and Glenn were watching him.

But this was something more than Daryl catching a beating. She’s seen that before, knows how he tends to react to that, but this? This is something else.

“What can I do?” She says.

“For now, just keeping a bowl of broth aside will go a long way,” says Hershel, gesturing with one of the bowls.

“Alright.” That won’t be hard to do.

Hershel gives her a small smile in return. “Thank you. I know you aren’t on food duty every day-”

“I will be,” she says, cutting off his words. “For this week at least, I’ll make sure of it.”

Hershel’s smile is a little brighter this time. “I appreciate that.”

Carol watches him walk away, his uneven gait taking him back to Daryl, where he passes the man a bowl. Something in her chest releases as she watches Daryl lift the bowl to his lips and drink directly from it.

An hour later they have finished handing out breakfast, and the dishes are cleaned and stacked away. Carol smiles at Alex, then makes her way down to the fences where a small group is taking out the walkers that have built up over night.

Not feeling like going back inside, Carol grabs a modified cane and joins in, taking careful aim through the chain link fence and stabbing through walker skulls. She keeps most of her attention to the walkers on the other side of the fence, but she can’t help but take the occasional glance to her left, where she can see Daryl sharpening a knife out by Tower Three.

After a couple of minutes of this, during one of her glances toward Daryl, she sees Beth coming closer with Judith. Beth hitches Judith up so she is cradled securely in her arms, and makes her way to Daryl.

Carol frowns as Daryl sees Beth, then Judith, and seems to shrink in on himself, his shoulders hunching and his chin tucking down. The closer the pair get, the more he looks like he wants to run away, and by the time Beth is standing next to Daryl he looks physically ill. He doesn't acknowledge the pair until Beth speaks.

"She misses you," says Beth as she moves Judith closer to Daryl.

It's quiet, and Carol strains to hear. She stops moving, just holding the sharpened cane in hand with her head tilted to the side.

Daryl doesn't say anything, but he looks like he is itching to jump the fence he's cornered against.

When Beth moves Judith just a little closer again, Daryl flinches away, like he's afraid of the baby. His eyes are wide, almost shocked at his reaction, and they mirror the look on Beth's face.

"What's wrong, Daryl?"

Daryl shakes his head, stepping to the side so he can get just a little further from them.

Carol can see that Daryl needs an out, so she takes a step back from the fence, and turns to face them fully, like she's just noticed Daryl standing there. "Mind giving me a hand," she says, raising her voice so it carries.

Staring at her for a moment, Daryl nods tightly. "Yeah."

He doesn't even look at Beth and Judith as he brushes passed them.

Then he’s beside Carol, the knife he’d been sharpening clenched in his hand as he jabs it into the skull of a walker. “Thanks,” he says.

Carol shrugs, tightens her grip on the cane, and gets back to work. She thinks about telling Daryl to grab something else to do this with, something with a longer reach so that he’s not so close to the walkers’ hungry mouths with his hand, but decides not to.

After a while there are only a few walkers left, and they are making their way down the fence to the right where the majority of the people working the fence are. This leaves Carol and Daryl, knife and cane dripping with blood, standing with nothing more to do.

Daryl wipes the blade of his knife on his pants, then sheaths it at his hip again.

Carol hangs the cane back on the fence behind them, then stands next to Daryl, their shoulders close but not touching.

"How are you doing?" Carol twists so that she can look at Daryl, watch his eyes. "Really?"

Thumb coming up to his mouth, fortunately of the hand that hadn’t just been stabbing walkers, Daryl shrugs as he gnaws on the skin around his nail, eyes looking somewhere into the distance.

Carol hums a little, eyes tracing Daryl's face. Then, knowing that she will never get anywhere with the man by pushing too hard too soon, she turns so she is standing shoulder to shoulder with him again. They don't say anything for a while, and Carol is happy that Daryl hasn't bolted yet.

They’ve been through so much together, have built this new life here at the prison from the ground up with their own sweat and blood. With the lives of people who were their family.

Seeing Daryl this shut down is frightening. He hadn’t reacted like this when Merle had been left in Atlanta, or when Sophia had come out of that barn. Or when Merle had come back, and was gone again in the blink of an eye. At least then Daryl hadn’t seemed empty. Barren.

“You can’t let this break you, Daryl,” says Carol without really meaning to. “We need you.”

Daryl swallows loudly, chewing on his lip hard enough to draw blood as his nostrils flare. His eyes are dry, she can see, but they seem bright because of how many deep red vessels surround his irises. He opens his mouth, like he is going to say something, but then bites his lips together, remaining silent.

He looks at her for a moment, and she can see his mind racing with thoughts, and then his mouth pulls down into a grimace of what she thinks is pain. And then he nods in one swift jerk of his head, and walks away.

Carol heaves out a breath, mentally berating herself for saying anything. That could have gone a whole lot better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry that these are short chapters that take so long to come out! I'm struggling with figuring out some scenes, etc. But I hope you have enjoyed this update. A whole lot more Rick/Daryl interaction in the next chapter :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Warnings: self harm.

 

The next morning comes, and Daryl has barely blinked all night long. His eyes are so dry that his eyelids feel like they are layered in grit every time he blinks, and his head is throbbing with exhaustion. But he can’t sleep, can’t risk letting his guard down for one moment.

When the first sounds of movement alert him to people starting to wake up, Daryl shifts away from the wall he’s leaned against, sheathing his knife. His fingers are stiff from gripping the weapon for so many hours, the joints feeling like unoiled hinges as he opens and closes his fist.

He stands and his head swims, his vision wavering in and out as the ground seems to rock like it’s become untethered, floating about in a pond. One hand grabs at the bunk as he waits it out, sight and hearing dulled to nearly nothing.

He needs to eat this morning, get some water into his system. He ain’t a stranger to hunger or dehydration; he knows when his body needs something to tide it over, and not listening to it would just make him weak. Weaker.

Sight returning slowly, and no longer feeling like he needs to hold on to something, Daryl kicks the wedge out from under the cell door and swings it open. There is no movement outside, whoever was awake no longer there, and as he passes the cells on the way to the stairs no one greets him or makes any sound at all. It is with a bubble of relief in his chest that he makes it down to the main level, then passed the guard tower and tables without being disturbed.

He doesn’t stop until he’s in one of their storerooms, rifling through the shelves of non-food items that they have amassed over the past months. There are can openers, pliers, packages of zip ties, and every other thing that they have been collecting on runs.

“C’mon,” he says. He remembers bringing back a box full of padlocks a few weeks back, and there is no way that they’ve all been used up.

He’s about ready to start tearing the place apart to find the damn things, when his hands hit a heavy box on the bottom shelf. The locks clank together, each with its own key jutting out the bottom, and he picks one that is hefty, but that will still fit between the links of chain he has in mind.

He leaves the little room with the lock in hand, and takes a detour to the generator room, where a short length of chain is abandoned in a corner. Grabbing it up, he nods in satisfaction. Just having the lock in his pocket and the length of chain wrapped over his shoulder eases his heart rate a little. He stashes them in the cell, then drags the rest of his belongings from their place on the perch into the space as well.

Once he’s satisfied with the cell, he heads outside. The light blue of the clear morning sky makes his eyes water, and he blinks heavily, squinting as he adjusts to the brightness.

Carol is already stirring a pot behind the make-shift kitchen area they have set up, her short gray hair catching in the early morning light.

Daryl walks up to Carol, and does everything in his power to avoid her eyes. As though his hunched shoulders and the hair hanging in his eyes would be an adequate barrier from her.

He stops in front of the counter, shifting from one foot to the other, and peeks up through his lashes. Carol is regarding him with a calmness that instantly releases the sharpest edge of his anxiety, and he nods at her with as little movement as possible.

“G’mornin’,” he says. It comes out muffled through his lips, which he’s too busy chewing on to talk properly.

Carol spares him a closed-lip smile as she hands over a bowl nearly full to the brim with a watery broth. “There’s plenty,” she says. “Get more if you want it.”

“Thanks,” he says. And then he darts a quick look up to meet her eyes, and walks away.

The broth ain’t enough to do much more than quench his thirst and stop his stomach from clenching hard enough to make him nauseous. But there is no way he will be getting any more. He’d seen the pot Carol had been standing by, and based on the lack of meat chunks, and the lightness of the broth, they were running pretty low on their meat stores.

It rankles, that he could be fixing that. Instead he’s been hiding behind the walls of the prison, eating the food and taking up space, but giving nothing back. And he don’t give two shits about taking the time to heal; he ain’t hurt so bad that he’s laid up in bed.

The bruises are fading down to nearly nothing, and by tomorrow he’ll be able to take the damn stitches out. After that, he won’t have an excuse.

“Hello Mr. Dixon.”

Daryl pivots on one foot at the voice all at once, almost too fast. He is quick to regain his balance, and when he sees the new kid, Patrick, standing behind him, he feels more than a little ridiculous to have nearly jumped out of his skin. The kid is a little stick, gangly and doe-eyed, almost as innocuous looking as Beth.

Daryl grunts out a greeting, then brushes past Patrick. The kid follows.

Daryl makes for his cell, but when he gets to the common area just before the rows of cells, Patrick jogs up beside him.

“I was wondering-”

Daryl doesn’t hear what the kid was about to say, as he takes a sharp turn to the left, toward the door leading to the tombs. But then Patrick has somehow managed to get just a little bit ahead of him, and is smiling up at him.

The kid doesn’t seem to understand that he’d rather be alone, doesn’t know when to back the hell off, and Daryl’s starting to feel trapped. By a goddamn kid. Daryl’s eyeing the door he’s just come through, is about to make an escape, but then Patrick starts talking again.

“I was wondering, sir, if you would perhaps, one day, teach me how to hunt. Like you, I mean.”

Daryl stares at Patrick, his eyebrows raising. He must look incredulous, because the kid immediately scrambles to say more.

“It’s just – what you do out there for us, when you bring back food, it’s awesome. I want to do something like that. Be that much of a benefit to the group.”

And just like that, Daryl is flooded by guilt and shame. Sitting around in the prison, locking himself up like some little pussy, that ain’t right. He can’t stay cooped up in the prison all of the time, a dead weight to everyone else. He needs to keep busy, get back into the swing of things to keep his mind from marinating in self-pity.

It’s perfect. He can do what he loves, and at the same time make himself useful. He doesn’t let his mind touch the stream of thought that tells him he shouldn’t go out there. That he should stay where they aren’t, where he’s safe.

Determination hardening his shoulders into a straight line, Daryl turns to head to the armoury. He’ll need a rifle.

“Mr. Dixon?”

Daryl doesn’t stop, instead calling out behind him. “Not now.” He can’t even bring himself to feel bad for brushing the kid off, as his mind is completely focused on what he needs to do.

He goes out through the tombs, and into the forest from the back end of the prison where the wall has been blown out with a rifle slung over his shoulder. They’ve barricaded the various entrances, and left only one still functioning; the keys to the door hang near it, just in case they need to make a quick escape out the back.

Daryl has always left through the front gate before, but he doesn’t want to attract attention today. He doesn’t want to see the concern in Rick and Carol’s faces. He just wants to turn back time and do what he’s always done.

Uncontrollable apprehension makes Daryl’s steps falter, but he passes through the last of the prison’s defences without looking back, then lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Passing the outer fence isn’t some great event; it doesn’t make him feel any different. Maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.

If he can do this, then maybe he hasn’t let this change him.

The treeline is closer to the fences on this side, so Daryl finds himself passing into the forest in no time at all. It isn’t until he’s a good hundred feet in that he looks back.

And realizes how much of a mistake he’s made.

Out of the corners of his eyes every tree is a hiding place, and when he turns around he flinches, expecting to feel the hard butt of a gun against his head. He stumbles, hands reaching, and leans into a tree for support.

But the feel of bark against him has his stomach cramping and his heart beating a fast staccato against his ribs. His eyes won’t focus, and then the memories push their way forward.

If this is what they call a flashback, then Daryl thinks it’s a dumbass name. He can still see the world around him, and feel the breeze on his skin. He knows, objectively, that there ain’t anyone around; he can see that much.

It doesn’t stop his mind from getting caught in the stream of memory, like a feather caught in a flash flood. He can’t stop it, can see it all happening again right over top of his view of the empty forest now.

The sound of grunts, the slap of skin. The way his shoulder and cheek are pressed hard into the unyielding tree. The scent of sweat, and the way hands keep moving up to encircle his throat.

And then there is nothing, and he is left alone. The bonds around his wrists burn and ache, and he can’t get away from the fucking tree. Can’t even get his own pants up over his ass. Anyone could come along. Walkers. More people.

A leaf falls to the ground in front of him, and Daryl instinctively goes for his crossbow, and finds a rifle strapped to his back instead.

“Fuck,” he says. He ain’t back there; he ain’t stuck to some damn tree with his ass in the air no more. “Fuckin’ piece of shit.”

He doesn’t know if he means to direct that at himself, or at the world in general, but it seems like the kind of sentiment to go with the situation.

Images are pushing their way into his thoughts, threatening to drag him under again, so Daryl pushes away from the tree, moving lightly over the forest floor. He’s partway around the prison now, so that the front gate is the closer option. Not to mention that he’d locked the door behind him, and the key is once again hanging on the hook on the other side of the door. That way out was never meant to be used as a consistent entry and exit; only for emergencies.

Walking the rest of the way around, Daryl can’t stop his eyes from darting about, head swiveling, and feet moving faster than he normally would in his rush to get back inside. He can’t do this. He thought he could, but he ain’t that strong. And he ain’t about to stay out here when he keeps getting distracted by the intruding memories.

He walks back to the fence line empty handed, and somehow his hands and feet are frozen while the rest of him is flushed. But the terrible tightness in his chest eases the closer he gets, and his vision ain’t quite so dark around the edges anymore.

Rick is at the gate when he gets back, mouth set in a hard line. Daryl doesn’t know how the man knew he’d gone, but he doesn’t much care as he brushes passed Rick and makes for C Block.

“Daryl,” Rick says, calling after him.

Daryl’s shoulders rise, his head tipping down. Somehow he feels like a child being chastised, and it is too much to take.

Before he even gets passed Watch Tower One, Rick has overtaken him with long strides. “You shouldn’t be goin’ out there alone,” he says.

Daryl’s hackles rise immediately, and anger, the first strong emotion that he’s felt in what seems like forever, bursts into life within him. “What, you think I’m some pussy now? That I need you holdin’ my hand?” Daryl whips around to face Rick as he speaks, teeth gritted tightly together.

Rick takes a step back, his eyes wide as he takes in Daryl’s words, and the aggression that is suddenly in his stance. “No,” he says. “I – No, that’s not it.”

“What, then?” Daryl doesn’t know why he’s so angry, but he can’t stop feeling it.

Rick seems to fortify his mind, making some kind of decision. “The Council decided that no one goes out alone. Not after what just happened.”

Daryl snorts. “I ain’t been told nothin’ ‘bout that. And I’m on the damn Council.”

“Daryl…”

“No,” says Daryl. “If you wanna go huntin’, go trample after someone else. Can scare their game away instead.” Once he says it, Daryl wants to take it back. There are a hundred better, more accurate, truths he could tell than the half-assed words that just came out of him.

Daryl can tell that Rick knows that ain’t the problem. But he would get a taste of Daryl’s knuckles if he pointed it out, and they both know it.

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Rick sighs. “Will you at least let us know that you’re goin’ next time?”

Grunting, Daryl gives a tiny nod. “How’d you know this time anyway?”

“Patrick followed you for a while. Told Carl he’d seen you go out.”

Damn kid. Don’t know when to back the hell off.

“Hey,” Rick says, trying to catch his eyes. “You don’t gotta go out there. Not yet. Could try giving it a couple days, anyhow.”

Eyes narrowing to slits, Daryl says, “’M fine. Don’t need you tellin’ me what to do, Grimes.”

And then he leaves Rick standing alone.

 

* * *

 

The guilt he feels for not bringing anything back sits heavy on his shoulders, and never being at ease with guilt, he’s out again the next morning. He leaves before the sun has even peeked over the horizon, the sky a dull blue to the east.

This time he doesn’t even get further than fifty yards from the treeline before the weight of the world presses in on his chest, crushing him, and the shaking in his legs won’t let him go any further. The anger hits again, seems to only aggravate the sick panic crawling through him, and then he’s lashing out with a fist.

He catches a tree with the knuckles of his left hand, and pain explodes outward from his fingers, radiating up his forearm to his shoulder in a breath-taking shockwave. Gritting his teeth over a pained hiss, Daryl slowly moves his fingers; they aren’t broken, but a deep brown-red stain is spreading under his skin, which is already swelling and radiating heat. There’s going to one hell of a bruise.

Huffing out a snort through his nose, Daryl shakes his head. Damn this pussy shit – he can’t afford to be hurt now; being hurt is being useless.

It isn’t until twenty minutes later, as he’s trailing a turkey that Daryl realizes the moment he’d hit that tree the panic had abated. It was like the sharp flash of pain in his hand had burned through it, had kept it from taking over.

He gets through the rest of the day by alternating intense focus on hunting down first the turkey, then two pheasants, and stopping to measure his breathing and press against the fast-blooming bruise over his knuckles. The pain is a calming drug, a balm. And he uses it.

The sun is barely half of the way across the sky when he calls it quits. There ain’t much in the way of animals out and about, and if he goes for too much longer he’ll have to widen his distance from the prison. Besides that, he ain’t had any meaningful sleep in so many days he can’t remember the last time. He eyes won’t stay open much longer, and he’d much prefer not to take a nap out in the damn woods.

That though is a kick to the chest, so hard that it winds Daryl with its intensity; just a week ago he would have reveled in the chance to be outside for the day, especially if he managed to find a good place to hole up and shut his eyes for a few minutes.

When he passes back through the gates, he’s too tired to do anything except pass the turkey and two pheasants off to Karen on his way by the commissary, then go directly to his cell. He locks the door behind him, then eases down on the mattress.

Sleep hits in seconds, and for a few blissful moments his mind is at rest.

A clanging noise has him shooting into a seated position, heart hammering and knife at the ready. Laughter and voices from below tell him that it was just one of the group, but his eyes automatically search out the lock and chain on his cell.

Everything seems intact, but he gets up and checks it over anyway. Then he lays back down.

Sleep won’t come again, and the dull ache from pressing on his battered knuckles isn’t enough anymore. Nothing can calm the feeling, that everything is about to go to shit; that someone is watching him.

He’s so tired, but his mind and body are a battlefield of conflicting urges; his head pounds, eyes droop, but his heart races and raw energy runs through the very marrow of his bones. It feel like he could fly apart, come undone.

He can’t be here any longer. The sound of people is too much, and he needs to get away.

Before, he’d have made for the cover of the forest and lost himself in the soft breeze and damp ground. But the wild is no longer a comfort. Instead, the open area, multitude of blind spots, they are a minefield of traps ready to snap closed with razor-teeth within his mind.

He barely remembers standing and unlocking his cell, is aware of only flashes as he moves through the prison. The metal stairs rattling beneath his feet. A glimpse of people seated at the metal tables in C Block. Long, dark halls.

And then he’s in a room off of the tombs, a storeroom before the prison fell that has been cleared out. He shuts the door after checking the room is empty, and all light is shut out, too. Leaning against the door, he slides to the ground, his own body serving to barricade the way in.

The concrete is cold and hard under him, but he can’t bring himself to care. The only thing that matters is the silence, the stillness of the room. No one is near, no one can be in the room without him knowing.

And finally, he closes his eyes and rests.

 

* * *

 

Rick glances up from pulling invasive weeds from where they are attempting to choke out his string beans when he hears the door to C Block clang open. Glenn spots him as he descends the stairs and starts toward him in a fast walk. Seeing Glenn’s face, the way he’s tense and moving fast, lets Rick know that something is wrong.

Throwing his gloves to the ground, Rick meets Glenn halfway.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“We need to do something about Daryl.”

“Where is he?” Rick is moving before Glenn has even registered, and he sees the other man jog to catch up to him as he makes his way into C Block.

“Hershel has been looking to talk with him,” Glenn says. “Said it’s about time he pulled his stitches out.”

Rick nods, eyes scanning the common area and guard tower as they walk through the door. “He stay in the cell all day?”

“Yeah. No one saw him since he locked himself in just after noon, until a few minutes ago.”

“What happened?” Rick directs the question not only to Glenn, but to Hershel as well. The older man is sitting at one of the metal tables, hands resting on his crutches.

“He came down, but he wasn’t really there, you know?” Glenn says.

Hershel nods in agreement. “Didn’t react to us except to walk faster. Wouldn’t listen to a word we said.”

“He go into the tombs?” Rick runs a hand over his face, fingers brushing through his short beard.

“Think so,” says Glenn. “Maggie followed him in.” At a look from Rick, Glenn continues. “Just to see if he was heading for the back door.”

Sighing, Rick says, “Thank you for comin’ to get me.” He strides into the tombs, eyes sharp as he looks for any evidence as to where Daryl has headed.

He goes as far as two lefts and a right before he catches sight of Maggie walking back toward him. “He leave?” Rick says.

Maggie shakes her head. “No. He’s in the storage closet two doors down from the cafeteria.”

“Okay.” Rick sucks in a breath, mind whirling as he thinks of what he should do. “Okay. Thank you.”

“There’s more to what happened than you’ve told, isn’t there?” Maggie says. Her jaw is set, and her eyes are clear as they pin Rick down. “Glenn won’t say anything. That’s more tellin’ than most anything else.”

Swallowing, Rick shifts his stance. “Ain’t my business, talkin’ about it.”

“I get that,” says Maggie. “Glenn does, too. At least, he does now.”

Rick doesn’t reply, but he remembers how it was right after the Governor had taken Glenn and Maggie, how they had been.

“But he needs to know that we’re here for him. And that we ain’t goin’ to smother him.”

“Yeah,” Rick says. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Maggie’s mouth pulls into a tiny smile, more a tightening of her lips than anything, and keeps his eyes for a moment before she leaves.

When Rick gets to the door Daryl’s behind he can immediately tell that Daryl’s pushed up against it. The lock is broken, and the door doesn’t even latch properly, so the only thing holding it closed in the weight of his body.

After a long moment of indecision, Rick steps up to the door and gently knocks against it. “Daryl?” he says. “You doin’ alright?”

No noise comes from within, so Rick lifts his hand up and knocks a bit harder. Still, there is no response.

Worry is multiplying in his gut, and Rick really doesn’t know what to expect here. “Daryl?” This time he calls, then pushes against the door just enough to feel it start to give. And then, with the sound of scuffling feet, all the weight against the door is gone, and it swings open.

In the wedge of light that illuminates the storage room, Rick can see Daryl crouched down against a set of shelves. At first Rick thinks Daryl is staring right at him, but then he sees that Daryl’s eyes are closed.

Rick takes a step into the room, keeping his hands out to his sides. “Daryl?”

Daryl jerks and his eyes snap open, his knife instantly up and ready to defend himself. And even though he notices that it’s Rick and he lowers the hand with the knife, he doesn’t relax. His shoulders are tense, the muscles of his arms standing out, wiry and bulging. His eyes fall to the floor and seem caught on nothing.

Rick moves toward his friend with a slow, steady pace. “Daryl. How’re you doin’?”

“Alrigh’.”

Daryl doesn’t twitch when Rick comes to stand next to him, but Rick doesn’t move to touch him when he notices that Daryl’s actually holding his breath as though waiting for some ball to drop. “Hershel’s been lookin’ to talk to you,” Rick says.

“’M fine,” Daryl says.

“Don’t look it,” says Rick. Hoping some honesty is the best way to do this.

“Tired.” Daryl’s words come out a slur, and his eyes seem to be closing of their own volition.

Rick glances around, then crouches down so he is sitting next to Daryl against the shelves. “I can see that. This okay?”

Daryl’s eyes fight to open as he looks over at Rick, but he nods in a jerking motion. “S’fine.”

Thinking to try and convince Daryl to come back to C Block to see Hershel, then get some sleep on a mattress, Rick opens his mouth. Any words he might have said are lost, however, as Daryl’s shoulder suddenly presses into his.

Daryl’s head is tilted back, but not enough to be terribly uncomfortable, and his eyes are fully shut now. His chest rises in an even pattern, which Rick can feel where they are pressed together.

His eyes take in his friend for a time, catching on the deep circles cut under his eyes, and the scraggly beard that hasn’t been trimmed in a good while. The man looks more than exhausted, and Rick can’t bring himself to wake him again.

So he stretches out his legs, leans his own head back, and prepares to wait however long it takes for Daryl to get some rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This chapter just did not want to be written, but it's finally here! Let me know what you think! -- things will be speeding up a little bit, with a bit more action. Especially as we get further in the timeline to when season 4 starts. How was this one?
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr: emoryems.tumblr.com
> 
> I love to follow new people, especially if they are positive lovelies <3

**Author's Note:**

> I've worked harder on the outline and meta for this fic than I have for my thesis. However problematic that is, it seems that this is bound-determined to be written. 
> 
> Please, if you enjoyed leave kudos or a comment. If you didn't, feel free to leave constructive criticism. That is always welcome. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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